


Baptism

by reservoirpups



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drowning, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, cats can't swim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:52:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5501825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reservoirpups/pseuds/reservoirpups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations." - Revelation 22:1-2 </p><p>A brief reflection of Adamska's younger years in relation to John and water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptism

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I'm not really sure what this is - I woke up at 4am one night, grabbed my phone, and started writing. It's kind of all over the place and it's a lot different than what I started out with but I figured I would give it a home here anyway.

Ocelot was 16 when he was taken in by the Spetsnaz and Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin just as he watched World War II come to an end. In retrospect, 16 was too young to become involved in the destruction of men, but Ocelot had been taught from birth that he was a product and a gear in the machine of war. Children were created by love but Ocelot was never a child. 

He was 16 and being taught to torture, but 16 year olds also have an affinity for breaking rules. The river water tasted different the further away from the machinery you were. He had learned that as a child. In the times that he was left to his own devices he often found himself wandering the grounds that surrounded Groznyj Grad in the mountains. It was peaceful the further he went into the forest, as long as he forgot about the masses of soldiers that hid between the thicket of the trees. But Ocelot had always been swift and cunning.

Volgin didn't like Ocelot's adventures. He didn't like that this boy he had taken a limb on spent his days climbing rocks and studying animals. He didn't like that his soldiers failed to notice a teenage boy running through the trees. Ocelot was punished one morning when the river's bite was sharper than usual. At 16 his body was weak and pathetic as Volgin held onto him with a vice grip and pushed him under the surface of the water over and over and over. 

“Pathetic boy,” he snarled as Ocelot struggled to keep his eyes open under the rippling surface, “an orphan to the war with nothing of his own apart from a girl’s name. You're here because of your genes, nothing else.”

Ocelot gasped and choked as he resurfaced, the crisp morning air hitting him like a resolving smack across the face. Volgin could kill him in an instant if he wanted to. The fact they were submerged in a body of water was only a reminder.

_ ‘I have electricity running through my veins and I’ve taken you to this body of water to make you suffer. I could kill you in an instant. I could kill you slowly if I wanted to. But I won’t kill you yet.’ _

Ocelot wasn’t sure at the time why The Boss had been watching carefully with a stone cold expression from the river bank. He didn’t know then, when he was just 16.

He was left to crawl out of the icy water on his own, weak against the strong pull of the current that tried to carry his wiry frame away from the direction of war zone and into the silence of the mountains. He often thought about what would have happened if he had let it.

Ocelot was a major by the age of 19. He was young and cocky, too young to realise that it wasn’t his fancy gun spinning or practiced tracking that had landed him the title. 

He sat on the edge of the river bank, carefully removing his cap and gloves and placing them neatly beside him. His jacket followed, the badges clinking quietly into the trees as it was folded. He eyed the water and watched as it trickled south. He wouldn't pick a river with a heavy pull. 

Ocelot hesitated before stripping out of his  _ telnyashka _ and placed it on top of his jacket beside him. The light breeze was a welcoming feeling against his bare chest as it became insufferable under heavy clothes when one was moving against the trees in the afternoon. Though relaxing, he felt vulnerable without his uniform. It was too ordinary, too humanizing.

He reached behind himself, pulling forth his canteen and leaning forward to fill it with water. It felt cool between his fingers. He made small splashes against his bare chest in an attempt to clean himself. He hummed almost silently, sending small vibrations against his lips.

There was a clicking noise from the clearing. It took Ocelot all but a second to drop the canteen into the river with a loud plopping noise and to pull out a revolver from his side in one fluid motion. He stared across the water and through the trees silently, cheeks pink from his half naked state. He didn't like the cold metal against his ungloved hand. 

“How’s the water?” Came a gruff voice from the direction Ocelot was pointing his gun. He saw a small glimmer of metal from the base of the tree and smirked, finally noticing the familiar green headband tied around a scruff of dark brown hair.

“Refreshing.” Ocelot replied, relaxing his frame but still keeping his gun pointed. It was less of a threat than a taunt.

Snake was still for a few moments before he moved from his position and out into the clearing. Ocelot watched carefully as he lowered his gun without much hesitation. Ocelot followed the action, resting it against the small pile of clothes he had made.

Snake tugged off his headband and rubbed his dirt caked hands against his forehead. It would have made Ocelot scoff if it were anyone else, but Snake was interesting to him. He had concluded that only after a few weeks of watching him through the foliage. He had a feeling that the other man knew of his presence.

“How do you not dive in?” Snake had started unbuttoning his shirt. “It's a hot one.”

“Cats don't like water.” Ocelot replied simply, cocking his head to the side.

“Of course, how could I forget.” Ocelot watched placidly as Snake turned his back, discarding his shirt onto the mossy bank.

“You're never supposed to turn your back on enemies. I could have shot you at least 3 times now.” Ocelot put his fingers up in the form of a gun for emphasis, closing one eye to focus on the target ahead.

“Is that what we are? Enemies?” Snake’s smile was crooked as he got down to his knees and hooked his hands underneath the cool water.

“Apparently.” 

Snake submerged his face under the surface, coming back up quickly and brushing his hands through his matted hair. Ocelot's went back to humming, dipping his toes into the water ever so slightly.

“They don’t have water on your side of woods or something?” Snake asked.

“Tastes like metal,” Ocelot answered evenly, “like blood.”

“Most of the water will in about a month.” Snake replied. He stayed long enough to clean himself off and fill his canteen before giving Ocelot a curt nod and heading back into the direction he came from without looking back. Ocelot held his fingers up like a gun again until Snake had disappeared through the trees. He made a quiet firing noise.

It was funny how something so out of place in war could silently become a routine between men. Ocelot liked the company, hidden away from the rest of the gun power throughout the trees. He would wander to the river every day when the sun was in the same spot in the sky. Some days Snake showed up, and others he didn’t.

“What’s your name?” Snake asked one afternoon as he tugged off his undershirt.

“You know my name.” Ocelot said simply. He was sat on the bank in his usual spot, in his  _ telnyashka  _ and wool trousers rolled up under his knees. It was a particularly hot day and Ocelot could feel the dampness of sweat against his clothes as he shifted uncomfortably.

“Your real name.”

“No one calls me that name.” 

Snake shrugged, tossing his trousers to the ground. The belt made a clinking noise. Ocelot watched lazily as Snake waded into the middle of the river, leaning down to get the dirt out of his nails.

“It’s Adamska.” It sounded foreign on his own tongue.

“A _ damska _ .” Snake tested the weight of it in his mouth.

“It’s a girl’s name.”

“Are you a girl?”

“I…no.”

“Then it’s not a girl’s name.” Snake stood up to study him. It was probably the first time he had properly looked Ocelot in the eye since they had started whatever this was. “I’m John.”

“Most Americans are, aren’t they?”

Snake smirked at that, leaning back down to rub his forearms in the water, “Probably, statistically.”

It had taken time but Snake had eventually persuaded Ocelot to roll up his trousers and join him in the water, holding his hand out to Ocelot so he wouldn’t slip on the mossy rock below the surface. If he had noticed Ocelot’s trembling fingers, he didn’t comment on them.

“Do you trust me, Adamska?” Snake had asked him. It was an odd question, out of place in their circumstances, and yet Ocelot liked the need for permission hidden behind the words. He liked the way Adamska sounded against Snake’s tongue. He liked the way Snake hadn’t expected an answer from Ocelot’s mouth when his outstretched hand was enough.

Ocelot’s breathing was shallow as he waded through the shallow end of the water, only letting it tickle against his calves.

Snake taught him how to catch a fish with his bare hands during the second week when he saw how baggy Ocelot’s clothes were on his frame. Ocelot liked that the most, when they were both crouched silently in their own thoughts, stirring only at the tickle of scales against fingertips. Ocelot wasn't very good at it, but Snake praised him all the same. Snake’s hands were rough against his as he gently guided him against the soft current. It seemed like Snake would catch them every 10 minutes, holding one in his hands firmly for just long enough for Ocelot to observe it before letting it splash back under the surface. When Ocelot eventually caught his first fish, Snake started a fire and cooked it evenly. It wasn’t as big as the fish that Snake would easily catch, but Ocelot was proud of his new trick. It would come in handy when he was refused meals for his performance.

It was the first time Snake stayed longer than a wash in the river. Ocelot watched as the thin ribbons of smoke from the fire crawled towards the darkening sky as the two men sat in shared silence.

The American was a frequent guest in his dreams.

He dreamed that the current was far stronger, that thunder and lightning cracked against the mountains, threatening to creep closer. Snake’s arms were strong as he held Ocelot under the water. He could feel the droplets of rain like needles against his thrashing legs. He was without weapon, without the familiar feel of heavy wool uniform. 

The cracks of thunder in the distance sounded muffled under the rough water, like deep growls that vibrated through his system. His lungs fluttered in a panic, his mouth hung open uselessly as he looked up with blurry eyes. All he could do was hold onto Snake’s wrists weakly.

And every time, just as Ocelot’s eyes were about to roll back, he would be dragged up from the water and into the cold night air. His lungs rattled as they taught themselves how to work again. He clawed at Snake’s chest, searching for something to grab onto. Snake held him close so his tired body wouldn’t be carried offstream. 

“Do you trust me, Adamska?” Snake would ask, running a gently hand over short blonde hair.

“Yes.” Ocelot would mutter, his throat sore.

Ocelot would wake up on the stiff mattress with sore lungs from holding his breath. He would pull the scratchy blanket tighter around his slight frame and wonder what part of the woods Snake was spending the night in. He hoped it wasn’t raining too hard.

Ocelot’s heart pounded in his chest as he dashed through the tunnels that were nestled into the side of the mountain of  Groznyj Grad . He knew these tunnels by heart, Snake didn’t.

His boots splashed loudly and echoed throughout the tunnels, matching the snarls and barks of the dogs up ahead. It wasn’t fair, this moment was his. He knew exactly which turn Snake had taken and he only had a few moments to catch up. He could finally see the sunlight that streamed through the end of the tunnel and slowed down his pace with a crooked grin. His spurs clinked with each slowed step, meeting Snake’s eye through the group of men that had surrounded him. 

“I’ve been waiting for this.” He drawled. With a wave of his hand, the men lowered their weapons.

The two men stared at each other with narrowed vision. They were the only two there in that moment. A gun was raised, but both of them knew Ocelot wouldn’t be putting a bullet into Snake any time soon. It was a greeting between familiars, a taunt. Perhaps an unspoken truce, of all things.

Ocelot tried to hide the smirk when he watched Snake fall backwards from the edge, arms stretched to his sides with practiced ease and trust. 

“Should we go down there, Major?”

“I don’t think so,” Ocelot spun the revolver around his finger placidly, “he knows these rivers like the back of his hand. So do I. I’ll see him soon enough.”


End file.
